


And Curse Sir Walter Raleigh (He Was Such a Stupid Git)

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Panic Attack, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Harry calms Zayn down and the one time Zayn returns the favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Curse Sir Walter Raleigh (He Was Such a Stupid Git)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [matchsticks_p (matchsticks)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchsticks/gifts).



   
 **\- 1 -**  


**early days: the bungalow  
**

_“I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash.” -- J.D. Salinger, Franny & Zooey_

  
  
"Last one to the pool is a compulsive wanker with tears for lube!" Louis sing-songs as he runs through the cabin, bursting out of the doors with the energy of someone who will undoubtedly cannonball into the water moments later.  
  
Niall follows behind him with his head thrown back in laughter, his pale cheeks going splotchy red as he wheezes. "Tears for lube," he snorts and wipes wetness from his eye, shaking his head.  
  
Zayn scribbles into his sketchbook where he's curled up on the couch beneath a woven white blanket. Inspiration hasn't hit since he got here two nights ago, but he thinks if he keeps feigning concentration then no one will bother him and maybe he'll be able to draw something half-decent, like a skull or a bird or a bloody butterfly.  
  
No such luck on being left alone, apparently, because Liam offers him a cold can of cola and a timid smile on his way outside and then Harry's stood in front of him with his long, lanky limbs on display, rubbing sunscreen over his arms. He's clad in a pair of black trunks -- or are they black pants? -- that cling impossibly to his thighs.  
  
"Coming or what? You'll have plenty of time to write in your diary later," he says. His voice is so syrupy sweet that Zayn can't take offence to the words.  
  
"Can't swim," he replies simply. "And don't have anything to wear, anyhow."  
  
Harry seems to consider this for a moment before bending in half to strip out of his pants. The last thing Zayn sees before Harry flings them in Zayn's face is his goofy smile. "Now you've got something to wear, _c'mon_."  
  
"Wanker," Zayn says, peeling the pants from his eyes and groaning when he sees Harry naked, glancing away instantly as his palms become clammy. When you grow up with girls for siblings, you don't just get _naked_ whenever you please, and Zayn's still not accustomed to seeing the Styles family jewels in every figurative shop window he passes.  
  
Harry, bless his heart, seems unfazed by the fact that he's completely starkers. "Come _on_ , mate. You'll be in the shallow end. And if you drown I promise to say really nice things about you in the press."  
  
"What the hell are _you_ gonna wear, then?"  
  
"Don't worry about that, I'll get another pair. Meet you out there, yeah?" And then Harry's gone, Zayn catching sight of his arse -- paler than the rest of him -- as he saunters away.  
  
Zayn sits there for a while, turning the garment in his hands and trying to figure out a good enough excuse to avoid swimming even after Harry's pleas, but the only thing that comes to mind is: _they've all been here three days without me and I already feel it's too late to blend in._  
  
It's a pathetic thought and Zayn wouldn't dream to say it aloud, but the idea of never being able to bond with the other boys makes his heart rise to his throat like bile. Their entire future depends on how well they mesh together and he can't fuck that up, no matter how much easier it might be to drop out of the X Factor and be a nobody in Bradford.  
  
With a calming breath, Zayn is up to his feet and off to the loo to change, far from the exhibitionist that Harry has proven himself to be. He strips and sets his kit in the corner before he pulls on Harry's pants and wanders outside. Somehow, Harry has beaten him out there, already play-wrestling with Louis in the water while Niall edges them on from the sidelines by throwing salted cashews at their heads.  
  
Zayn pushes inside the pool and dunks his head, submerging himself for a long moment before coming back up, completely drenched. It's pretty shallow where he's standing, but it's colder than he expected and he's not sure he wants to stay too long.  
  
"Zayno!" Louis calls out when he's finally bored of strangling Harry. He grabs a beach ball from where it's floating nearby and throws it toward him.  
  
This inevitably prompts a game of volleyball, the drains midway through the pool signifying the net.  
  
Louis, Liam and Zayn team up against Harry and Niall, an arrangement that Louis had decided on with the utmost confidence. They start off keeping score diligently until they somehow morph into an entirely new game with a fresh set of rules that no one can actually remember or bother to follow. Mostly they just try to hit each other in the head as often as possible.  
  
Once it dies down to just throwing the ball around, Zayn slips out of the pool for a smoke.  
  
There's an unspoken rule not to light up at the bungalow but he walks far enough into the trees that it feels admissible. He doesn't like to smoke in front of the lads, anyhow; he worries they think he's fucking up their chances by messing with his stamina and vocal chords, but he's planning to quit eventually. He shivers amidst the trees and smokes two fags in a row, mentally chiding himself for not bringing a towel with him, and then heads back to the pool.  
  
It's only Liam and Harry inside the water now, Liam swimming laps and Harry floating on his back. Niall is laid out on the asphalt in a soaking puddle, looking like he might be asleep. Zayn barely has time to glance towards the door and wonder where Louis is when he feels a massive weight slam into his body, sending him crashing into the deep end of the pool with solid force, his body brushing against the floor of it.  
  
The weight disappears from him as quickly as it had appeared and Zayn thrashes wildly, his heart pounding as he tries but fails to shove himself to the surface. He sucks in a mouthful of water through his nostrils and coughs violently in the aftermath, keening for help, but the sound bubbles and dies out around him. It seems to last forever, but Zayn knows, logically, that it's only a few moments before he's surfacing again with one massive gulp of air, eyes widened in shock. He coughs unevenly for more air, his eyes burning as he tries to reach the safety of the asphalt.  
  
"He can't swim, Louis!" he hears someone yell in the distance, but everything is so far away and dull and hazy, like maybe he's going to faint. He reaches the side of the pool and clambers out, hands slipping a few times before he manages to haul himself up to the ground. He straightens up and runs as fast as he can. He goes where his feet take him, still coughing and sputtering water from his nose, his sinuses stinging like they'd been lit on fire.  
  
He's in the trees again when another weight curls against him; it's gentler this time, but it's firm and determined nonetheless. Zayn pushes out against it, shoving Harry away from him. He wonders as his vision starts to focus again if it's possible for him to literally burst out of his skin or if his body is just pushing him to throw up what he'd ingested.  
  
"Zayn, Zayn, Zayn," Harry chants, taking both Zayn's wrists forcefully and pulling him close, searching out his eyes with a visible fear in his own. "Breathe. You're okay, mate, you're okay. Yeah? You're okay. You're okay."  
  
Zayn swallows hard and tries to focus on Harry's voice. He nods meaninglessly, his heart still hammering against his ribcage as he starts to come back to himself. He feels small, dripping wet and shivering until his teeth clatter, though he's not sure if it's from the cold or from the nerves racking his bones.  
  
"You're okay," Harry says again, letting go of his wrists and wrapping long arms around his shoulders, pressing his nose into Zayn's hair. Zayn clings onto Harry's sides and nods. "You're okay."  
  
Zayn shuts his eyes and holds onto him until he believes it.

  
**\- 2 -**

**first tour: up all night**

_"There's something really the matter with most people who wear tattoos. There's at least some terrible story. I know from experience that there's always something terribly flawed about people who are tattooed..." -- Truman Capote, Conversations with Capote_

  
  
Somewhere down the line, Lou's husband, Tom, makes the terrible mistake of gifting the boys one of his most basic tattooing kits, machine included.  
  
In hindsight, Zayn thinks he and Louis might've actually nicked it from him when they were all drunk -- or, well, borrowed it indefinitely -- but Tom hasn't asked about it since, and so it travels with them wherever they go. It unofficially becomes Zayn's property within a week of them acquiring it, tucked into the bottom of his bag as they hop from city to city, a welcome addition to the tour.  
  
They don't use it often, but it's simple to operate, easy enough to figure out after you've seen it in action a couple of times. Zayn uses it to tattoo an 'A' on the inside of Harry's elbow one day when they're bored and Harry uses it to tattoo a '6' on Zayn's arm when they can't book an appointment with a proper tattoo artist in time and, well. Louis uses it to tattoo a dot on the back of Liam's calf while he's asleep, which is the beginning of the end of his tattooing privileges.  
  
When the first leg of the _Up All Night_ tour ends, Zayn stows the kit away, only bringing it out once when he and Danny are high and stupid enough to want to tattoo the first letter of their names onto each other's hipbones. It's two large pizzas, five Breaking Bad episodes, and a fading buzz later before they realize what a misguided idea it had been all along.  
  
"Still, those are wicked solid lines for how fucked out of our minds we were," Danny says the day after, admiring their efforts in the sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window. Zayn can't help but agree as he touches his chin to his chest, surveying Danny's work on his own hipbone with a sense of swelling fondness.  
  
They don't use the kit often, but when they do, it always seems to matter.  
  
\--  
  
When they're back on tour, Harry's got a bruise the size of a coin pouch on the inside of his arm where he'd literally walked into a door -- Zayn had watched it happen and had congratulated Harry on his idiocy -- and he won't stop pressing into the purple and yellow patches while they watch TV in the back lounge of the bus.  
  
"Stop it," Zayn chides mildly, but he doesn't move his eyes from the telly or add enough conviction to his voice.  
  
Harry furrows his eyebrows. "Stop what? M'not even moving."  
  
"Stop bloody poking at the bruise. It's not going to heal if you don't let it."  
  
Harry looks down at his fingers on his arm as though he's genuinely surprised to see himself pressing against it. "Huh. Didn't notice," he says. "Calms me down, I think."  
  
"Like a weird sex thing?" Zayn asks, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he meets Harry's.  
  
"No, you perv. And even then, what of it?"  
  
Zayn shrugs. "I'm the same. Not with the bruises, but tattoos. You know the best feeling in the world?"  
  
Harry hums in consideration. "Playing sold out shows to unconditionally devoted fans? Getting to number 1? Breaking world records with our debut album?"  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes. "All right, all right, second best feeling. Cigarette after I've had a tattoo done. Feels like I've had the shag of my life."  
  
"Of course you'd share with me an experience I can't even try," Harry says dryly.  
  
"And why can’t you? I'll give you a fag next time."  
  
"Asthma," Harry reminds him. "Not supposed to smoke. Exasperates it or whatever."  
  
"Ah, right, well..." Zayn shrugs lazily, eyes moving back to the TV. "The point is more the tattoo than the cigarette, really."  
  
"Yeah," Harry says, running his fingers over the ink on his wrist. "I feel the same, mostly. Shifts my focus and just sends... signals 'round my body."  
  
Niall walks in and settles on Zayn's lap with a plop, eliciting a grunt from him. "Are we talking about pizza? God damn, near gets me off, I swear."  
  
"I sing with a bunch of perverts," Zayn mutters. He stores Harry's words at the back of his head and lets the moment pass.  
  
\--  
  
It's a few days later that Zayn's dry-heaving into the toilet bowl of his hotel room while the rest of the boys are off to soundcheck.  
  
He'd woken up feeling nauseated, though Louis had insisted it was only because Zayn had shoved the blankets off himself in the middle of the night and that the cold had upset his stomach. Whatever the cause, Zayn had worried himself even sicker thinking he might not be able to perform that night, and the self-inflicted anxiety coupled with the original belly ache have rendered his body useless.  
  
He groans at his futile attempts to relieve his stomach, resting back against the wall as his eyes fall shut. He lets himself wallow in self-pity for a moment longer before he moves himself out of the bathroom and onto the crisp bed, curling up with his phone and scrolling through Twitter.  
  
He's angry with himself. He's almost certain whatever had gotten into his stomach earlier had gone away now and that he's only psyching himself into feeling ill, but he doesn't know how to shake himself out of it.  
  
He texts Harry.  
  
 _how's soundcheck? come by my room when your done? x_  
  
Setting his phone aside, he drags himself to his bag on the floor and kneels over it. He gingerly pulls out a medium-sized black case, flipping it open and removing a small tattoo machine, black ink, rubbing alcohol and a disposable razor. He digs in deeper for the box of sterile needles and disposable gloves.  
  
Harry's there within twenty minutes, letting himself in with what must be Louis' room key. Zayn doesn't know how the current arrangement of hotel rooms got divvied up, but it blows his mind that Paul would pair him up with Louis -- any tour manager's worst nightmare.  
  
Harry's brows furrow in concern when he sees Zayn on the floor. "Feeling any better?"  
  
"Feel like shit, to be honest," Zayn says from where he's sitting cross-legged with his phone. "Was thinking a tattoo might help, if you're up for it."  
  
Harry laughs under his breath but nods without question. He toes off his shoes and disappears into the bathroom; Zayn can hear the water running as Harry washes his hands. When he comes back, he sits cross-legged across from Zayn, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves.  
  
"You've got the entire kit out," Harry says, a lilt of amusement in his voice.  
  
"Been waiting for you," Zayn says. "Can't figure out what to get."  
  
Harry bites his lip, considering. "I'll get something with you."  
  
"What, like matching?"  
  
"Yeah. Somewhere hidden. Like maybe our ribcage or ankle or something."  
  
"Ribcage's too obvious, na?"  
  
Harry shrugs. "Ankle, then."  
  
Zayn nods amicably. He's not too choosy and he's already feeling better just by virtue of Harry being calm and collected about every damn thing.  
  
"Let's get screws," Harry says, smiling dopily as he runs an alcohol swab over Zayn's ankle. He runs the razor over the skin a few times before disinfecting the area again.  
  
"Screws?" Zayn asks, watching him closely. "Like, to signify the loose screws in our head?"  
  
"Poetic," Harry laughs. "No, like. To keep us grounded. Screwed to the ground."  
  
Zayn shrugs, considering. He watches Harry prep the machine and the ink cap. "I like it," he says finally. "To keep us grounded and to keep us from falling apart spectacularly."  
  
"...and to signify the loose screws in our head," Harry adds with a smile, pulling Zayn's leg close and working the needle carefully over his skin.  
  
By the time Zayn is returning the favour and making a valiant attempt to match Harry's screw to the one on his own skin, he's feeling certain they're going to have a good show that night.  
  


   
 **\- 3 -**  


**promo: take me home  
**

_"I call [my mother] to say, ‘You know those lines on the kitchen wall where I grew taller and taller and taller? Put a couple more there, won’t you? ‘Cause I’m growing up here.’" -- Andrea Gibson, Enough_

  
  
Zayn feels like his flesh is packed too tightly around his bones.  
  
Tomorrow the band leaves for Paris to promote the new album but today, padding aimlessly around his home in London in grey joggers and a white t-shirt and a pair of thick-rimmed specs, he can't seem to shake his head clear.  
  
He finished a quarter-pack of cigarettes on the balcony with Danny earlier, sinking low in one of the rickety chairs with his feet up against the railing. Danny sat curled up with a mug of tea in his lap, an overflowing ashtray on the table between them, the two of them staring out into the darkness. The silence had helped calm Zayn down in the moment, but now he's back to pacing and feeling a bit out of breath for no discernible reason.  
  
He slips into the bathroom and flicks the lights on, stretching his arms out by his sides in front of the mirror. He's getting a bit too scruffy for his liking but he can't be bothered shaving. His facial hair comes in too thick for a razor blade and he's had to use an electrical one for years now, but he mostly puts it off and waits until Lou yells at him that he's starting to look like he'd been eaten up and spat out by Jumanji.  
  
He runs a hand over his chest, rubbing it slowly.  
  
He'd phoned his mum two days ago and she'd told him that he's going to miss his little sister performing at a community event in Bradford while he's in France. He's not sure why he hadn't heard about it earlier. His mum had mentioned the whole thing so casually, like it was to be expected that Zayn won't be around for anything anymore. He'd been annoyed at the time, but he'd bitten his tongue because a minute later, she'd been fussing over him in her doting voice, asking him if he and Danny have been eating enough and if she needed to send them any more herbs.  
  
He's been feeling a bit subdued since he found out he won't be there for Saf's performance, though he can't figure out why. He used to hate these fundraising community dinner things, his mum forcing him to get a haircut and dress up in his best clothes and _put down that bleedin' book, Zayn, we're going to be late!_ He misses out on a lot of family gatherings to be a pop star these days -- he should be used to it by now -- but it just seems a waste that he's going to be in Paris doing interviews with inevitably invasive twats when he could be cheering on his little sister instead.  
  
He makes a mental note to bring her back something sweet from La Maison du Chocolat and then drags himself into the kitchen without turning off the bathroom lights. He sits on a stool by the island while Danny cooks, the smell of coriander, cumin and tamarind thick in the steam coming off the pots.  
  
"Smells good," Zayn comments, taking out his phone to text Harry. "Fuck, didn't realize how starving I'd been until just now. I could eat a cow."  
  
"That's 'cause you'll go all bloody day without a meal unless I make you something. Clown." Zayn flips him the bird half heartedly without looking up, but it's mostly true. "Harry's coming for dinner, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah, just texted me. On his way."  
  
"I've tried to keep the curries a bit mild, but I reckon he'll shit himself anyhow," he tells Zayn over his shoulder.  
  
Danny makes them a proper feast: palak paneer, his own take on half-burnt chickpea curry and a bit of rice and roti on the side. He doesn't go all out often, but he tries to treat Zayn to something whenever he's about to leave town.  
  
Harry -- true to Danny's word, bless his heart -- ends up subtly fanning his mouth between bites and guzzling water and pulling at his visibly tingling lips until they're swollen red. His eyes are watering halfway through the meal but he troops on, finishing his entire plate, and Zayn tries not to be too endeared by the determined sight of him.  
  
He rubs circles into the small of Harry's back with a laugh before pulling him against his side, pressing an amused smile into his hair. "All right, then?"  
  
"Top notch," Harry says roughly, voice scratchier than when he'd arrived, and it pulls another fond laugh from Zayn's gut.  
  
"You'll build up a tolerance just like you've done with tequila, bruv. Seen you drink like no tomorrow, ya champion," Danny tells Harry laughingly from the sink.  
  
Harry sniffles and nods, his eyes sparkling from his dimpled smirk as much as from the curry. "I could use a bit of tequila after that, to be honest."  
  
They don't end up doing shots because flying hungover is a mistake you only have to make once, but they do have a beer while they watch re-runs of the IT Crowd on Channel 4. Danny gets a call halfway through the third episode and steps outside for a smoke to take it. Zayn and Harry finish the program more out of laziness than anything, then head to Zayn's room to start packing his bag for the flight.  
  
It's become an unspoken tradition for Zayn, roping one of his bandmates in with alcohol or food or affection so that they'll sort out his luggage for him -- one that he never hopes to break as long as he's traveling the world with the boys.  
  
Harry kneels over Zayn's bag on his bedroom floor and shoves it full of rolled -- not folded, in interest of saving space -- clothes. Zayn sits across from him idly, his palms resting on the floor behind his back, not even pretending to help. He nudges Harry with his toes as a silent thank-you and Harry squeezes his foot in recognition, his thumb brushing over his tattooed ankle.  
  
"This isn't going to be enough for like, _anything_ ," Harry tells him, trying to squeeze another black t-shirt into the LV handbag that barely fits a mishmash of Zayn's toiletries. "This entire thing is half full of your camo jacket, you tit. You're going to wind up wearing all my things."  
  
Zayn laughs in agreement. "I hope you packed your new blue plaid shirt. Planning to wear it first day we get in."  
  
"'Course you are. Child," Harry says, but there's a fondness to his voice as he presses in the last garment he can fit into the bag. He zips it up with some trouble and sits back on his haunches to admire his efforts. Apparently satisfied with his work, he gets on all fours and crawls the small distance between them, settling on his bottom next to Zayn and dusting off his hands.  
  
"Y’okay?" he asks, turning his gaze onto the profile of Zayn's face, and Zayn knows without looking that Harry's eyes have settled unabashedly on his lips. Zayn licks them, unsettled.  
  
"Fine, yeah." He glances over at Harry now, and Harry's eyes flick up to meet his. "Why d'you ask?"  
  
"Been quiet all night," Harry says, "usually can't shut you up, the chatterbox you are."  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes. "Been thinking of the fam, is all. Saf's performing tomorrow and I'll have to miss it."  
  
"That's no good," Harry says, his hand sliding up the length of Zayn's spine to settle at the back of his neck, squeezing gently. "Maybe your mum could film it on her phone and send it over?"  
  
Zayn huffs out a laugh. "And who'll teach her to do that? Not me. Regret ever telling her to buy an iPhone. Been trying to teach her how to use FaceTime for about a year now."  
  
Harry smirks. "Get one of the girls to film it, then. I've seen their Instagrams, they know how to operate a camera better than I know to sing."  
  
"Maybe," Zayn says, and he's always a little bit impressed with Harry's seamless troubleshooting abilities. Where Zayn is prickly and impatient, Harry is smooth and logical. Where Zayn is feather-limbed and cinched at the waist, Harry is broad and thick and sturdy. It's comforting in a way Zayn's never been able to fully understand. "Stay over the night, yeah? We'll drive 'round to yours tomorrow and grab your things."  
  
Harry nods easily, his hand smoothing lower down Zayn's back. "Yeah, all right."  
  
Zayn nods, nudging his knee against Harry's in another gesture of wordless gratitude, and they both sit there in a comfortable silence until Danny calls out to them with a promise of dessert.  
  


  
**\- 4 -  
**

**mile high: 2013 world tour**

_“This can't go on all the time...all this franticness and jumping around. We've got to go someplace, find something.” -- Jack Kerouac, On the Road_

  
  
Almost smack down the middle of their second world tour, everyone starts to get burnt out.  
  
Zayn realizes this sometime between Liam getting genuinely upset with Niall for stealing a bag of crisps from his bunk --

> "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I'll buy you another bag at the next stop!" Niall.
> 
> "I don't want any bloody bag, I want _my_ bag, the one you've already eaten!" Liam.
> 
> "All right, give me a sec to purge the crisps and repackage 'em for ya, ya big joker." Niall.

\-- and Louis having a breakdown after him and Zayn share a tightly packed bowl of green in their dressing room bathroom.

> "M'gonna die alone." Louis.
> 
> "You've got Eleanor. You'll grow old together and then die." Zayn.
> 
> "M'gonna die while she's out to the shop or something. I know it." Louis.
> 
> "All right, well. Let's have another bowl, then." Zayn.

Zayn manages to stay relatively grounded despite the overall exhaustion, but his smoking habit gets a bit out of control somewhere between show number 45 and 57, going up from half a pack a day to a pack and a half at the very least.  
  
Needless to say -- by the time they're all sat on a plane heading back to England for a short break, relief has seeped visibly into all of their bones. Even Louis looks on the verge of peaceful sleep in his seat, incapable of causing his standard amounts of ruckus and airplane mayhem.  
  
Zayn has almost dozed off himself when he feels something odd. It's so subtle that he thinks he might have imagined it entirely. He's sinking into his window seat with Harry tucked by his side, and he feels a shake. Not turbulence, but more delicate; the set of Harry's shoulders are trembling beside him. Harry shifts before Zayn can make sense of it, but a knot of worry sparks in his gut.  
  
Zayn sits up straighter with a deliberate air of nonchalance. He leans forward and looks out into the aisle, making as if he's checking to see if there's a stewardess around, but he uses the new angle to catch a glimpse of Harry's face from the corner of his eye. There are unmistakable tears in Harry's eyes and his chest hitches sharply when he sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.  
  
Zayn sits back in his seat and looks at his own screen. He knows Harry's watching Spiderman -- knows it's a sad movie and that it could be all there is to it -- but it still makes his insides twist to see him like that. Harry unbuckles himself from his seat and heads towards the lavatories. When Zayn looks over at Harry's abandoned screen, the film is still playing without pause. Zayn swallows hard and follows behind him.  
  
He knocks gently at the door, resting his forehead against it. "It's me, Haz."  
  
It takes a beat, but Harry slides the lock open and lets Zayn push inside. Zayn thanks him quietly and leans back against the small sink as the door shuts again. Harry is sat with his shoulders hunched on the closed toilet seat; he's sniffling, shaking his inhaler in his hand without any purpose.  
  
Zayn watches him for a long moment, Harry's eyes downcast, his long, bony limbs cramped in the tight space, and then he takes a step forward into the V of Harry's legs. He twists his hands into Harry's curls and Harry leans into it like a kitten, pressing his forehead against Zayn's belly. Zayn can feel Harry's breathing dampen the material of his thin shirt. He massages his scalp gently through it.  
  
"All right?" he asks after enough time has passed that breaking the silence doesn't seem too intrusive.  
  
Harry nods against Zayn's stomach, voice scratchy when he mutters, "Yeah, all right."  
  
Zayn smiles sadly at the broken sound of him. He crouches down between Harry's legs and curls his hands into the sides of his neck, thumbing away tears from the line of his jaw. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth, tasting salt.  
  
"You're going to be all right, Hazza. We all are," Zayn says. "If you taught me anything, it's that."  
  
Harry smiles a trembling little smile through the residue of tears, sniffling again. "Yeah?"  
  
Zayn nods, pulling Harry closer until their foreheads knock together and their eyes fall shut. He takes a moment to breathe him in, the scent of eighteen year old boy and pure comfort, and when he exhales, he murmurs, "Yeah. M'sure of it."

  
_\- fin -_   


**Author's Note:**

> Written for [matchsticks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/matchsticks) as a part of the 3point5seats [holiday fic exchange](http://3point5seats.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20exchange). Originally posted [here](http://3point5seats.livejournal.com/107910.html). ♥


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